


Cornflake Girl

by kariye



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, mild cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kariye/pseuds/kariye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which many Rodney clichés rear their obsessive-compulsive heads. And wherein Rodney thinks he’s found out Sheppard’s secret. Because Rodney’s always right. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cornflake Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from LJ.
> 
> Because I had to write a fic called “Cornflake Girl.” Because it's fun! Thanks to perverse_idyll for betaing.

It all starts, as so many things do, with something he isn’t supposed to see. 

Like the time he oh-so-casually poked his head into the school nurse’s office where April Bingham happened to be (because it’d been an entire week since she kissed him and really, it was starting to look like she was avoiding him), just in time to see the nurse shake her head and say, “I’m sorry, April, but it sounds like you might have mono. I’m going to let your mom know she should take you to the doctor.” 

“Oh,” Rodney moaned, doubling over into the doorway. “My spleen. I feel it swelling. Quick, check my lymph nodes,” he told Mrs. Gana. 

She crossed her arms and stared at him. “Mr. McKay.” She never called anyone else by their last name. “You’re invading April’s privacy. Excuse us.”

“But I feel a fever. I’m flushed, right? Burning up.” How could she not see this? “My brain might fry! You can worry about April later. She’s got so much less to lose,” and yes, that might not have been the best thing to say if he wanted another kiss from her, but there was no way he was going near her now. It was beginning to look as though he’d had it right in fourth grade, after all: girls have cooties. 

“Go burn up over there,” Mrs. Gana snapped, and pointed to the chairs on the other side of the room just as April punched him in the arm really hard and said, “See if I ever help you with algebra again, Rodney McKay. Jerk!” and ran out.

“As if I needed it,” he shouted down the hallway after her. “I was leading you on.” And just for good measure, because even if she was around the corner and not in sight any longer, she gave him mono, mono, he was sure of it, he yelled, “And you fell for it!” 

“That, Mr. McKay,” Mrs. Gana told him, “was most ungentlemanly. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

He blinked at her. “Hello? She probably gave me mono.” That’s the way Rodney’s luck runs. “Which could mean weeks in bed. Sleeping. You’re looking at a future Nobel Prize winner, and this is going to set me back months. Because it’s exponential. Even two weeks lost to mono now could mean that five years down the road, I’ll be half a year behind schedule. All the great thoughts I’ll never think, lost, because of mono, and—”

Ms. Gana shoved a thermometer in his mouth. “Keep this under your tongue until I tell you to take it out. And keep your jaw still. No talking with your mouth shut.” (It was a bit scary how well she knew him.) “I want to feel your lymph nodes. I’m sure you’re overreacting. Again.” 

In later years, Rodney pinpoints this exact incident as the source for all his mistrust of so-called medical practitioners and their ilk.

So when Sheppard strips out of his black T and BDUs, the ones with the pencil-sized hole near the knee that Sheppard only wears around Atlantis when he’s off-duty (and that hole isn’t so much pencil-sized now as it is marker-sized because Sheppard worries it when he doesn’t have anything else to do with his hands, like shoot a gun or polish his golf club) – Okay, so when he slides his pants down over his hips and Rodney catches a glimpse of something that looks kind of a little too much like women’s panties, sleek and tight against his skin, and not enough like the boxers that Rodney knows Sheppard wears, it’s actually not a whole lot like the “stalking April Bingham – she’s got mono – I’ve got mono” thing. 

Except that like then, Rodney’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to see Sheppard in ladies’ black underwear. Because he was supposed to have left John’s room five minutes ago when Teyla and Ronon did and Sheppard started brushing his teeth, but he was just grabbing his movies and maybe lingering for a minute because Keller made him promise to stay out of the labs for just one night, so what else is he supposed to do?

Hope that Sheppard hasn’t seen Rodney see what he’s seen, and try to open the door very quietly and tiptoe out, apparently. Or, failing that, make an abrupt strategic retreat and run like the Wraith are after him. 

+++

Two weeks later, Sheppard still hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t look at Rodney funny (any more so than usual), treat him any differently, or try to eject him from the jumpers in mid-transit. Rodney’s 97.4% sure that Sheppard has no idea that he was still in the room when he took off his pants. 

Which is good, right? There are some things that a man should just never know about his friends. Some things that cross the line, a bold and well-defined line. Because if that line were crossed, if a man did know such things about his friend, his team leader, he just might start to think things. 

Things like Sheppard’s back abruptly cut off by black cotton. Which isn’t unheard-of in and of itself – Sheppard’s stingy with showing his skin, but even he can’t totally prevent the hem of his shirt riding up and tossing out that streak of belly, of lower back, pale against habitual dark fabric. It’s only because it’s so rare that Rodney can’t help but notice it. This, though, this is the long white of his back, the too-low curve of too-thin elastic, the too-high arch of cotton at the top of his thigh, and if Rodney were to start thinking about such things, he might think they looked a little too good. In a purely aesthetically pleasing way, of course. 

He’s not wrong, though. Admittedly, he’s no expert on women’s underwear, but he knows enough and he knows what he saw. Besides, and more importantly, Rodney’s never wrong. Except for those few occasions when he is, and yes, it’s unfortunate that when he’s wrong things tend to go bad in a big way, and yes, there was that time on PX9-428 that they don’t talk about, but other than that, not wrong. Rarely wrong. Mostly right. And he’s right about this.

Only, he’s Canadian. Polite, tactful. So Sheppard’s got a secret, big deal. No one needs to know anything. Especially not Sheppard. He wouldn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. Or do anything that would cause him to suspect Rodney knows. 

“Hey,” Sheppard says as he saunters into the lab. “Movie night again. At Ronon’s. You coming?” and Rodney nearly chokes on his coffee (instant, but he’ll take what he can steal from his minions) because look what happened at the last movie night.

Still.

“Yes?” he says, coughing. 

Sheppard rests his foot on the middle rung of a stool and leans forward. His shirt jerks up, briefly, and aha! There’s that flash again, and there, right there, that’s the waistband of … boxers. 

“Huh.”

Sheppard looks down. “What, did I spill ketchup on my shirt?”

“Huh,” Rodney says again. 

+++

He decides he’s not going to think about it. It’s better that way. 

He doesn’t think about it as he gets undressed at night and looks down at his own underwear, boxers that say, “If I could remember the names of all these particles,” on the front, and stamped across the ass, “I'd be a botanist,” and yes, come to think of it, these shorts might have had something to do with his break-up with Katie. He still doesn’t see what the big deal is, except that the quote gives a little too much credit to botanists. His own boxers don’t make him wonder what Sheppard might be wearing right now, those red and white striped boxers that tend to peek over the slipping edge of his BDUs or something … less traditional. 

When he shaves in the morning, it doesn’t make him think about Sheppard shaving, about what he might have shaved other than his face. He doesn’t think about Sheppard pulling cheap fishnet hose over his bare legs, the lines crisscrossing up the back and front and leaving gaps for seeking fingers. He doesn’t think about his long toes, the jut of his ankles encased in nylon and spandex, perfect for a mouth to caress, a tongue to swirl around. He doesn’t think about Sheppard’s lips just a shade too red, swollen. About his own thumb smearing the lipstick to the side of Sheppard’s mouth where his ever-present stubble begins, about that contrast. About arousal, his masculine scent lying heavier under the lightness of a skirt, its flat lines ruined at the groin by the outward press of his cock. About Sheppard’s eyes bright with debauchery. 

God, he should be smacked for dressing him up like this because that’s just cheap and tawdry, and the Colonel’s starting to look like a second-rate floozy, only, you know, with a cock. Which just isn’t fair, because every time they go off-world and entire populations make sheep’s eyes at him and he does the whole Kirk thing, Rodney always thinks that Sheppard’s a first-rate floozy. Besides, he’s pretty sure that Sheppard doesn’t slap but prefers to shoot. Or whack you upside the head if he likes you. 

This is why Rodney’s not going to think about it. If he did, he might obsess over it. Some people (Nana. Jeannie. Radek. Ms. Gana, the school nurse. Jeannie. Carson. Mr. Donato, his ninth grade math teacher. Professor Strogilakis. The mailman whose route included his parents’ house when he was applying to universities. Jeannie) – some have hinted, delicately or not so, that he might have a slight tendency toward obsession. He’s not about to prove them right.

+++

Only how’s he not supposed to think about it when he sees things like this? Again with the seeing things he wasn’t meant to! It takes him a few minutes to figure out what’s going on, but that’s only because of that whole thing about not thinking about Sheppard and his underwear and whatever else he might get into. Not because Rodney’s being dense.

Teyla’s standing outside Sheppard’s door, holding something. It looks like Athosian fabric, that really soft kind that sits so well against the skin, and that’s definitely some leather right there, and those are laces. John is blushing. Really, that’s the tipoff. It’s that bit where he sort of ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck while the tips of his ears turn pink.

Rodney slows his pace and pretends to be looking at something on the tablet he’s carrying.

“It is not so hard, John,” he hears Teyla say. “You will do it wonderfully, and it is a large step forward in your own development as well." She gives Sheppard an arch look of encouragement and hands him the bundle of fabric. Which is when it clicks, and Rodney can’t believe he didn’t see it immediately. Teyla’s his supplier. That fabric? One of those little skirts she wears. And the leather thing with the laces? Can only be a corset. 

Christ. He has to stop and lean back against the wall as things threaten to white out in front of him at the thought of Sheppard in a corset. Not that he needs one or that Rodney would want to see it pinch him in like a woman, because no, but it would emphasize the long lines of his body. 

Teyla’s shirts usually lace up the front, but he’s willing to bet that the corset ties at the back. It would take another person to get it on Sheppard properly, especially that first time, to lay it out unthreaded and wrap it around his torso, the top curving up under his flat copper nipples. Rodney would take a minute to play with them, to make them flush and ask for more. He’d go slowly, get it right, make John look beautiful even the first time. John would have to hold it up while Rodney laced up the back, and his elbows would stand out from his body as his hands pressed his own chest. Maybe, if he were daring, Rodney would trace the line of his arm, shoulder, triceps, bicep, pointy elbow, forearm. Then he’d begin to pull in the laces, and when it was tight enough for the fabric to stay up, he’d tell John to reach upward so that his torso would stretch and he’d get a tighter tie. And when he finished, he’d kiss the small of John’s back, right where the skin would meet leather, as he listened to John’s measured breaths. 

“Hey Rodney,” Sheppard says from his doorway. 

Rodney starts. His eyes fly open. 

Teyla raises an eyebrow. “Is there something we can do for you?” she asks in that way that says, “If you’re snooping, I’ll break your legs with my sticks.” She rests a hand on her belly. It’s starting to pop out, and sometimes Rodney can barely keep his eyes off it. He missed all this with Jeannie. 

“I was just,” he waves his hand in some kind of circle that’s meant to point vaguely, somewhere, “going to fix the environmental controls. Over there.”

“We will not keep you then.” 

“Right.” Drat. 

Sheppard clutches the corset to his chest as Rodney walks away. “Er,” Sheppard says to Teyla. “Thanks. I think.”

When he rounds the corner, Rodney pokes his head back around just in time to see Teyla take Sheppard’s hand and place it on her belly. Sheppard blushes all over again

+++

On P6Y-039, it starts off so well. Things often do, right before they go to hell. 

They’re soft,” Ronon snorts, and Rodney decides this is not the time or place to explain what the “soft” in soft sciences really means. He steps over low brush. They’ve been walking for almost two hours now.

Rodney grimaces and looks down at his scanner to check how far away they are from the energy signal he’s been reading. It doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. 

He can’t believe he’s going to say this, but it’s as good an opportunity as any to demonstrate to Sheppard that he’s a tolerant guy. That he’s open-minded, and that Sheppard doesn’t have to worry about his reaction to things. Like underwear choices. He glances at him. One of Sheppard’s hands rests on his P-90 as he walks. The other appears to be open and relaxed, swinging at his side, but it’s always in reach of his thigh holster. 

“Now wait,” Rodney says to Ronon. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Just because someone doesn’t conform to the expected standards of your own society doesn’t mean that they have less worth than you.” 

He tries not to choke on his words, because actually Ronon has far more worth to him than, say, Dr. Crane, who’s the expedition’s ichthyologist, or Dr. Tsetsuboro, one of the anthropologists. (In what universe does any sane expedition need three anthropologists?) Which probably has something to do with the relative difference between the number of times Ronon’s guns have saved him (many) and the times fish science has (none).

But he forges bravely onward. “You shouldn’t impose your normative values on people who don’t embrace the same objective you do. We should accept their free choices and, uh, respect that without devaluing them as individuals, and really, someone might say that carrying around several dozen knives in your hair alone looks like paranoia or maybe even some sort of compensation, but you don’t see me treating you as an inferior because of it.”

“That’s because you’re scared of me,” Ronon says as he looms closer to Rodney (who doesn’t eep at all), and, “Are you saying I have a small dick, McKay?” (And fine, maybe that was a very tiny whimper that escaped him). 

The corner of John’s lips lifts. “Why, Rodney, I’m not hearing you defending the soft sciences, am I?” 

Rodney winces. When it’s put like that. But. “Uh. They’re my people?” he says weakly, even though he is totally not a biologist or sociologist or something equally dubious. 

“It is all right,” says Teyla. “You do not need to be ashamed of standing up for those people who are your responsibility.” 

“Yeah, Rodney,” Sheppard says in a pompously lecturing tone. “Loyalty is very important,” and if Rodney didn’t know that loyalty truly is that important to John, he’d think he was being mocked, especially when Sheppard waggles his eyebrows at him. It is, though, and sometimes, like now, Rodney almost gets the sense that John’s mocking himself more than anyone else. 

Right. Now he has to keep defending them, sheesh. So he says, “Anyway, the scientists didn’t come to shoot things and kill Wraith and Replicators. That’s your job, Ronon, and the military’s. They didn’t come here to merely survive, but to learn.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t need to be in shape, to be able to fight. Can’t learn anything if you’re dead.”

The thing is, Ronon’s right. Rodney knows that. The scientists do need more physical and weapon’s training, even if they never leave Atlantis. As many deaths occur in the city as off-world. Likewise, the marines need more basic electrical and repair skills, the equivalent of Ancient plumbing work. Many of them have the background knowledge to be doing more than offering protection services. 

It’s just – “I used to be a theoretical astrophysicist. You know? Once upon a time. Theoretical. I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

Sheppard’s shoulder bumps into his. “But how much more cool is this? You get to do things, not just sit in a lab.”

There’s a long pause. “Yes, well, maybe,” Rodney finally mutters.

Which is exactly when Sheppard, who’s now just a step ahead of him, jerks and falls to the ground in a spasm. A purple field envelops his prone body, firing up and disappearing. The edges of it flare around Rodney’s hands as he reaches out to John in the same instant that it appears. He yanks them back with a shriek of pain. A burn sears them as though he had held his hands in a flame.

“McKay,” Ronon shouts. His pulse gun is held high and ready. Teyla raises her P-90 and watches their backs. 

“Yes, I know! Doing something, doing something. Sheppard? Crap, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I take it all back! This is not more cool. Give me theory any day. Colonel? John?” 

John doesn’t respond. The purple field knocked him out, and Rodney can only hope that it didn’t burn him as it took him down, because his own hands are already forming welts. If John’s unconscious and badly burned all over, they have an even more serious problem. As if it’s not bad enough already. Rodney can barely grip the stick he’s using to determine the edges of the field that’s enveloping Sheppard. 

It appears to be clinging quite closely to Sheppard’s body, a low bubble that Rodney can’t get through. “I think it was pre-set, like a land mine. Only it initiated a force field of some sort,” he says after a few minutes, turning to the standing members of his team. 

“You do not think we are in danger of attack?” Teyla asks. 

“I haven’t picked up a single life sign since we got here, other than us. We know from the Ancient database that there wasn’t anyone here when they left Pegasus. I’d say these have been sitting here for years. Probably the energy signal I was picking up, only maybe it was rigged to seem farther away than it is. A lure. I didn’t get an increase before Sheppard triggered whatever he did.”

And he should have. He should have realized that something was going to blow, should have seen a sign, should have known that John was walking into a trap because how could he miss a huge purple flare, damn it? How could he let John walk into that while he bickered over the soft sciences? How is he supposed to get John out of there with his hands shooting streaks of fire through his nerves?

“This was not your fault, Rodney. There was no sign of anything.”

Rodney shoots Teyla a look. “There must be some sort of control panel around here somewhere. Some sort of trigger he stepped on. If he’s not on top of it, I can try to tamper with it, dismantle the field. Be careful where you step. There could be more.” 

“Ronon,” she says, “one of us should return to the gate and bring medical assistance. And Dr. Zelenka. Rodney’s hands are injured, and he may not be able to use them.” 

Rodney wants to protest, wants to say he can do this, especially when Ronon finds a flat panel on the ground that appears to be connected to the force field, but god, what if he can’t? He forces himself to ignore the pain as he examines it. Teyla helps him get the top panel off so that he can see the wiring, and he’s poking around inside when John groans. 

He looks up to see John try to sit up and ram into the field. It won’t let him, but the flare this time isn’t nearly as bad as before. John grunts and falls back. “Ro’ney?” he mumbles.

“I’m working on it,” Rodney tells him as he yanks out a wire and bites his lip against the pain. 

“You ‘k?”

“I’m good. Fine. Everyone is fine.” Sheppard can yell at him later for lying. Right now there are more important things to worry about. “Don’t move, Colonel. I think it’s set to administer shocks in increasing intensity if it detects you trying to escape.”

Teyla talks softly to John, trying to keep him alert, while Rodney works. “Ronon has gone for help.”

“Rodney’ll get me out,” says John, and Rodney looks up from the panel at him. John’s watching him. In his eyes, Rodney sees his utter conviction that he will release him from the field, that he’ll find a way. 

He’s helpless to do anything but say, “Okay,” and John slurs, “See?” and promptly passes out again. 

So Rodney gets him out. It takes too long and John keeps losing consciousness, but he gets him out. Nothing else for it.

+++

It’s a week or so after their jaunt to P6Y-039 before Rodney starts to get suspicious. And maybe a touch hurt, too. 

Because he already knows that Teyla’s in on Sheppard’s little secret. The more he thinks about it (he’s totally given up on the not thinking about it thing in favor of being discreetly supportive, because he’s a nice guy that way for his friends), the more he comes to believe that Ronon also knows. He has to. They spend too much time working out together for it to be otherwise. No one can exercise that much. (Although not right now since Sheppard’s still on light duty. Rodney doesn’t know how Sheppard was the one who was enclosed by a sizzling purple field, yet Rodney was the one who was more badly burned. Sheppard’s still staring at Rodney’s hands balefully, an angry tic at his temple.) 

Maybe he’s being supportive of Sheppard, too, like Rodney wants to be. Or, probably, he just doesn’t care one way or the other. Ronon’s like that about a lot of things, guns, knives, running, sparring, and food aside. 

Rodney gets that it’s Sheppard’s prerogative to tell who he wants, and that there’s no good reason he should tell Rodney over either of them. Still, though. He can’t help but be a bit miffed that he’s been left out. If Sheppard’s going to spill the beans, it should be a team thing. Otherwise, it just begins to feel like middle school all over again. 

But. He did just free the man from a burning, claustrophobic purple jail.

Well. For anyone else, he wouldn’t bother, but this is Sheppard, after all. Even if John’s obviously being a schmuck about the whole thing, he’s still kind of his best friend and Rodney’s going to take the high road. 

Clearly the only thing to do is to get Sheppard to tell him, too. 

He’ll keep his mouth shut and wait for John to talk. With the smallest amount of subtle nudging possible. Really. He’ll just make it as easy as he can for Sheppard to say something (because if he left it totally up to Sheppard to talk about his feelings, nothing would ever get said). There’s a reticent piece to John, and Rodney’s certain that there always will be because John Sheppard is wired that way, and Rodney’s mostly fine with that, but every so often he can’t help but wish that that piece were just a tiny bit smaller when it came to him. 

Okay, when it comes to John’s underpants.

It’s not that Rodney’s butting his nose into his business. Or that last night thinking about John and long slabs of muscle disappearing into sleek underwear and his own hands slipping under the satin against John’s arse, he came harder than he has since he was about twenty-two. Into his hand. Jesus. That would be pathetic if he weren’t so completely justified, but he is because Sheppard + women’s underwear + a little bit of shimmer high on his cheekbones + otherwise naked = hot.

No, this is for the good of the team. They need to stick together. 

+++

Sheppard’s doing semi-annual jumper maintenance with Zelenka. Or so he claims. Zelenka’s telling the same story, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

It’s taking them an awfully long time. It’s going on almost two weeks now. He’s only seen Sheppard eleven times in the mess in that period (eight overlapping dinners, four of them “coincidences”; three lunches, all “coincidences”); five times in his lab (three of those when he requested the other man’s presence); four senior staff meetings (which barely count); four times he just happened to be near the jumper bay and decided to check up on Radek’s work; and twice in the hallways (not counting all the times they passed each other without stopping to talk). 

“Rodney,” Radek finally says, exasperation evident in his voice. “Last time it took me three weeks. I made a recommendation at that time that we do this quarterly so that it would only take a week each time, but it always slips to the bottom of the heap. It’s a big help having Colonel Sheppard around with the gene.”

Rodney eyes him. “So you and the Colonel have been working on the jumpers.”

“Did I not just say that? I do not see what your problem is anyway. I’m still keeping up with my other projects, and with Sheppard helping me, it’s not like you’ve had to do anything here.” 

“Where is he, anyway?” Rodney asks, casually. He always knew that Radek was devious, but this. Luring Sheppard in with the jumpers. That’s just underhanded. 

Radek looks over from the open panel he’s working on. “I do not know. I don’t keep him on a leash.”

“Maybe you should.” Rodney examines a loose crystal. “If you want to keep him around, I mean. He might decide he’s got better things to do than hang out with you here.”

Radek snorts. “As if there’s anything more important than his jumpers.” He stares at Rodney. “What is really going on, McKay? You are sounding almost” – he pauses – “jealous.”

“Oh, look,” says Rodney. “There’s a crack in this crystal. I’d better find you a replacement.”

+++

The next day he happens to remark to Radek in an offhand tone that the team is going off-world tomorrow. “So you’ll be working on the jumpers alone.”

Radek shrugs, and Rodney frowns. “Because Sheppard will be with me. Us. With us.” Just to be clear, since Radek doesn’t seem to be getting it. 

“Yes, Rodney, I understood the first time.”

“Good.” Rodney types into his laptop with the satisfaction of the righteous. If Sheppard truly wants to carry on with Radek, Rodney will be a gentleman about it and stand aside. No, really. He just doesn’t see why Sheppard should choose Radek over him. Not that he wants Sheppard to pick him. It’s not like he has some silly crush on him, after all. 

It’s simply that he doesn’t see what Radek can offer him that Rodney can’t. Radek’s smart, but Rodney’s smarter. Radek’s a geek, but Rodney’s a bigger geek. Radek’s got a (not at all) charming accent, but hey, Rodney can do that, eh? Radek’s got crazy scientist hair and … okay, Rodney doesn’t, but he can do the rest of the scientist thing. And on top of that, he's got the whole tac vest routine down, too. With gun. That’s hot, right? He’s versatile, and doesn’t that say something right there. 

He’s feeling pretty confident when Sheppard arrives in the lab half an hour later. “You want to grab some lunch, Colonel?” he asks.

“Can’t,” Sheppard replies, not looking nearly apologetic enough to Rodney’s eyes. “Gonna work on the jumpers with Radek. I’m just here picking him up,” and he actually smiles his dorky little half smile. Not at Rodney. At Radek. 

Rodney glares at Radek, who’s got an innocent blank expression on his face as he snaps his laptop shut. “I have sent you the file with my recommendations for the updates to the internal sensor program.”

Rodney grunts, and he almost misses it because he’s turning back to his own project, but an almost miss is not a complete miss. Radek waits until Sheppard’s back is to them before saying, “I will be in the jumper bay with the Colonel if you need me,” and he smirks. Smirks. Deliberately. 

Rodney feels his mouth drop open. “You—” He can’t say more to the perfidious weasel since Sheppard’s just outside the door waiting. Radek winks, and Rodney just sits there on his stool, sputtering.

But as Radek grabs his laptop and a few tools, Sheppard pops his head back in and says, “Computer golf later?” and Rodney manages to say, “Sure,” as if it doesn’t matter at all, and then he grins triumphantly at Radek because hah!, and he doesn’t care one bit if the Colonel sees. 

+++

Their mission on MX4-772 requires them to stay overnight. It takes all day to meet the leaders and for everyone to decide that everyone else is nice and friendly, or at least not likely to cause an outbreak of open hostilities. (“Perhaps it would be best if I spoke for us,” Teyla suggested in such a way that it really wasn’t a suggestion at all. She pinned both Rodney and Sheppard with a look, and Sheppard glanced at Rodney and shrugged. It’s the only reason she came on this mission anyway, as she’s taking it easy until the baby arrives.) By the time they get this far, the Baxians have decreed it time for a communal supper. They promise that tomorrow after the overnight fast is broken, they will show them the fields of grain that they came for and discuss a possible trade alliance. 

It’s actually quite a nice room that they give them to sleep in. There’s a fireplace on one side and two beds, and John waves at their guide and says, “Great, thanks,” and then it’s just him and Rodney in the room. Teyla and Ronon are off doing something. Teyla and Rononish things, he supposes.

Now this is how it would go down if fate weren’t such a bitch: 

The firelight plays over the side of Sheppard’s face as he stares down into it. It seems to have a mesmerizing effect on him. 

Rodney sets his pack down on a bed and clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Everything okay?” 

Sheppard looks at him blankly, and Rodney busies himself looking in his pack for his laptop. “You seem a little pensive. Like you’ve got something on your mind. Like maybe there’s something you need to get off your chest.” He sneaks glances out of the corner of his eye in Sheppard’s direction, and by the time he’s gotten to the end of his spiel, Sheppard actually is looking almost concerned.

“I know what pensive means, McKay,” is all he says, though.

“Right. Right. I’m just saying. Letting you know the offer’s out there. If you ever need to, er, talk, I’m here?” He hadn’t meant to end that in a question, and fine, even in his own fantasies, Rodney’s not exactly the smoothest when it comes to these things. “I’m very open.” He pauses for emphasis. “Open-minded. Non-military. Not American.” Oh. “Not that you need to tell me anything. You could mime. Or something.”

Sheppard looks as though he’s not sure whether he should be mocking Rodney or dragging him back through the gate to the infirmary for a complete check-up. Rodney decides now would be a good time to switch the subject entirely.

“Are you almost done with the jumpers? I only ask because you’ve been spending a lot of time with Zelenka lately, not that you can’t be with whoever you want to be with, and I was wondering if—” Rodney comes to a screeching halt. Not the right direction, not at all. 

“I mean, I do need Zelenka in the labs, occasionally, and please don’t tell him that, but you’re kind of hogging him.” (Of course, what he really means is that Radek’s hogging Sheppard, and probably in horribly deviant ways that involve naked skin and sticky orgasms, which, really, Rodney always suspected that Radek was a kinky little bastard. He’s so going to assign him to Waste Disposal Systems maintenance when they get back to Atlantis.) 

“Radek’s a good guy,” Sheppard says mildly. “Look, you feeling okay? You’re acting sort of odd. Even for you.” 

“Fine,” he huffs. This isn’t going the way a proper fantasy should.

Sheppard glances at the door. “They gave Ronon and Teyla a separate room. I’ll take this bed. You take the one next to the fire.” Also, Sheppard’s bed is the one nearer the door, so it’s probably a military thing, which is as it should be because Rodney doesn’t want to be the first line of defense. Not that he wants John to be either. He never does. It’s a constant problem for him. He never feels so helpless as when there’s nothing he can do with his brain to help John, when he has to run and trust that John will cover his back. Because he does trust that John won’t let anything happen to him, but that means he can’t guarantee the same for John because he’s busy running. 

Rodney plops onto the bed. 

“Warm in here, isn’t it?” Sheppard remarks. 

Rodney perks up. That sounds more like it. He doesn’t have a problem using a few clichés in his fantasies, not if they get him what he wants. “And these blankets look heavy,” he adds helpfully.

“Yeah.” Sheppard takes off his vest and the black long sleeves he’s got on. There’s a T-shirt underneath. He takes that off too, and his chest is bare but for the flicker of the red-orange firelight over it. It casts shadows on him that dance in and out of the whirls of dark hair there. He sits down and pulls his boots off, and then undoes his pants and stands, back to Rodney, and Rodney holds his breath, waiting. It’s just like that first accidental glimpse in John’s room when he stood on one leg and bent the knee and yanked the leg of his pant, and that, like this, shouldn’t have been half so attractive as it was, and oh, god, right there, that’s it. The scalloped elastic edge of the little black underwear, high cut in the thigh, cupping his ass just so. 

John picks up his pants, which involves him bending in all sorts of interesting ways, and his long feet are naked on the cold floor, and wow, it looks like Rodney might have a foot fetish on top of everything else. Feet are a tricky thing, see. Rodney once estimated that 98.7% of the population, male and female, have ugly feet. Feet with fallen arches, squat toes, crooked toes, ingrown nails, corns, bunions, warts, calluses, nasty cracked skin. But that remaining 1.3% - they have nice feet. Nice feet despite being walked on and generally abused. And John’s feet?

Rodney’d really like to warm those long toes up, stroke the arch of his foot, follow it up the inside of his leg, slide under the edge of those low-slung underwear. They shouldn’t look so good against the lines of John’s male body; they’re meant for the curves of a woman’s softness, and John is anything but. They do look good, though, and foot fetish, taste for women’s undies, Christ. How did Rodney make it to forty without knowing these crucial things about himself?

He’d like to see the corset too, but he supposes it’s really not practical for fieldwork. Might constrict breathing and all that, running for their lives and the gate being one of the things Team Sheppard does best. 

“Good night, Rodney,” John says, and he gets into bed. Rodney gulps and sits on his hands so that he doesn’t touch himself where John can hear.

+++

That’s how it should go. How it would go if the universe had any love for Rodney McKay at all. It doesn’t. This is how it really goes:

The firelight plays over the side of Sheppard’s face as he stares down into it. It seems to have a mesmerizing effect on him. 

Rodney sets his pack down on a bed and clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Everything okay?” 

Sheppard looks at him blankly, and Rodney busies himself looking in his pack for his laptop. “You seem a little pensive. Like you’ve got something on your mind. Like maybe there’s something you need to get off your chest.”

(Look, if he can’t be suave and subtle in his own fantasy, there’s no way it’s happening in real life. That whole horrible conversation about talking and feelings and Radek? It really happened. Rodney doesn’t want to go through it again.) 

Sheppard finally asks him if he’s feeling all right, and Rodney huffs, “Fine.”

“Okaaay,” says Sheppard. “Don’t you think Teyla and Ronon should be getting back soon? They just went to grab some beds to drag in here. The Baxians want us all in the same room for now.”

“You’re letting Teyla carry a bed in here? What about the whole pregnant thing? Should she be lifting heavy stuff?” Rodney really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but that can’t be good for the baby.

Sheppard lifts his eyebrow. “You want to have that conversation with her?”

“Uhm,” he says. 

Sheppard takes off his vest and long sleeves and boots before he goes to bed. Rodney watches surreptitiously and manages to catch a flash of blue boxers over the edge of John’s pants. He sighs and crawls under his blankets. But he keeps his eyes open once his head is on the pillow, and there, John’s feet are bare. His toes are just as long as they are in Rodney’s fantasy.

+++

After that, it gets worse. Here’s the thing. Rodney decides he’s going to do whatever it takes to keep Sheppard in his sights, to keep an eye on him. He’ll ask for shooting or flying lessons, or tell him they need to fix the desalinization tanks (although he draws the line at asking him for sparring tips because, no). But it turns out that none of these excuses are necessary. Once the jumper maintenance is finished, things go back to normal. It’s amazing how much time Rodney normally spends with John. He hadn’t realized. 

Sheppard pesters him when he’s bored (and really, doesn’t he have more work to do?). The team eats together often, and even more frequently, it’s just him and John. They go off-world, sometimes spending hours cooped up in a jumper together. They watch movies and pass many quality hours in the infirmary and occasionally even do some math. The more he thinks about it, the less he remembers his schedule always being so full of Sheppard, but it must have been. 

His plan always trails off somewhere after “1. Spend Time With Sheppard.” Things are just supposed to fall into place. It’s not that he wants to make John unhappy by splitting him and Radek up. It’s just that he wants to make John more happy. Not so hard, is it?

But the more he sees Sheppard, the more he notices things. They’ll be sitting around playing chess. When the game’s over (or it’s gone on so long that they’ll have to come back to it), Sheppard’ll get up and pat Rodney on the shoulder, and his hand will linger there, just a little. John never used to be so tactile. 

Or they’ll be in the jumper on their way somewhere and he’ll catch John staring off into space, literally, somewhere over Rodney’s head. The jumper will still fly in a straight line (because the jumpers are all whores for John), but John will just be sitting there with a silly little smile on his face. The one that doesn’t look like a smile but actually is. 

Then there was the time on M3Y-211 that Rodney almost missed because he was talking a mile a minute as they walked back to the gate. He’d been going on like this for almost the entire way back, and Ronon was yawning and Teyla was looking serene. Yet when he mentioned Radek’s name in connection with his and Rodney’s work on the ZPM, Sheppard promptly tripped over a tree stump and flailed to the ground. Right as he said, “Radek.” Really, it’s kind of hard to miss a two foot high stump in the middle of the path. 

The only thing he can conclude is that Sheppard’s got it bad for Radek. He daydreams about him, and Radek’s obviously training him, by touch, to get used to touch, which is why he’s touching Rodney more often now. And while Rodney would love to pretend that he’s such a great guy that he’d never come between two friends for his own benefit, that’s not really it. Because he would, if only he thought he could get away with it. No, he just hates setting himself up for failure, and John seems so goddamned happy with Radek that Rodney can’t see where he could win this one. 

The really frustrating thing is that maybe it didn’t have to be like this. At some level, Rodney’s perfectly well aware that he’s being a bit ridiculous, but it’s easier to be a bit ridiculous than deal with other things. Like why he’s so fascinated with the idea of Sheppard in little black underpants. Or why he’s upset that Sheppard might choose Teyla and Ronon and worse, Radek – another scientist! – over him. But at least if he chose them first, there’s hope. Hope for what exactly, Rodney doesn’t want to get into, but it probably has something to do with hope that someday John might talk – or do something else – with him too. 

Besides, it’s easier to blame others for standing in the way than to think it’s got something to do with him. 

Because sometimes John does talk to him. As much as Sheppard ever says anything. A few months ago when Rodney had about fifty-seven projects on his hands and Sheppard came to him with yet another one. 

“What,” he’d snapped. “Do you think I’ve managed to find another time machine left behind by the Ancients and just neglected to say something to everyone? When am I supposed to fit this in?”

Sheppard shrugged. “Dunno. I’ll give you my last packet of Tim Tams if you can look at it this week.”

Which is fighting mean. Tim Tams. Hard to get, even in Colorado at the SGC, much less in the Pegasus galaxy. But, “Hmm, no,” he said, which they both knew meant yes because, god, he’s cheap like that sometimes.

Sheppard grinned at him. “See, that’s what I like about you, McKay. You just spent the last twenty minutes bitching at me about it, but you’ll do it. Other people, they smile politely and promise to help out immediately and then they never do.”

Rodney glared. “Don’t get used to it.” He waited until Sheppard’s halfway out the door to add, “And I want both packets of Tim Tams. I know you’re hoarding them!”

+++

One morning Radek says to him, “Colonel Sheppard asked me to tell you that he cannot meet you for lunch today until an hour past your usual time. He sent you this coffee, though. I spilled a bit on the way here.”

Rodney’s head snaps up. “Coffee?” He inhales, and then looks sharply sideways. “Why did Sheppard give you coffee?”

Radek shrugs. “I ran into him in the hallway.”

A likely story. And yet. Coffee.

“You should be more discreet,” he mumbles into the mug. 

“With the coffee?” Radek blinks. 

Well, yes, with that, too – never know who might accost you if you’re carrying a cup of it (Rodney’s been known to do this himself) – but that’s not what he meant. “Never mind.” 

“Rodney.” Radek pauses. “You know that I was only teasing you, yes? With the whole jumper maintenance thing several weeks ago? And” – he lowers his voice – “Sheppard.”

Rodney grunts at him. “Yes, yes. Go away. I’m busy,” and he is, except mostly he just doesn’t want to hear the excuses. He doesn’t want them, either of them, to lie to him about this because he’s probably closer to them than he is to anyone else in the city, and just. They don’t need to lie to him.

+++

On PX6-450, they arrive as the sun rises. It’s one of those things that people who aren’t on gate teams don’t tend to think about. They’re all, like, ooh, new worlds, never thinking that at least a third of the time, the team stumbles right into the middle of some black night. The only reason it’s not more often is that sometimes they have intelligence from a MALP. 

But on PX6-450, they get it just right. Ten minutes after they get there, the sun rises from behind the ocean. The waves roll against the shore, sucking in and out, turquoise blue on white sand, and the sun is bigger than the sun on either Earth or New Lantea, and it’s first conch-shell pink with pale yellow fringes, and then orange-orange-red and alive. 

John stares up at it. From behind John’s black aviator glasses, Rodney can see the sun-laughter lines fanning outward. His hand is on his P-90, his elbow nudges Rodney’s side, the sun is huge in the blue sky, filling it, and Rodney thinks that the reason he doesn’t have a crush on John is that maybe he’s got something bigger.

+++

Sheppard’s been twitchy all day. Rodney saw him standing by the gate waiting for Lorne’s team – overdue – to come back through. Carter folded her hands; Sheppard shifted his weight from leg to leg. After the team made it back safely, he joined Rodney for a late breakfast in the mess. His fingers tapped a staccato pattern on the rim of his cup. Later that afternoon, he showed up in the labs unexpectedly and made grabby hands at the latest tech gadget Rodney was working with (and of course it beeped and burbled at him where it’d only flashed a few melancholy lights at Rodney). Rodney smacked his hands away and made him help Simpson with her calculations, which made him pout only a little and really wasn’t at all attractive. 

Now he’s standing over Rodney, so close that he can feel Sheppard’s breath on the back of his neck. “Time for all good scientists to be in bed,” he says. “Come on, Rodney, you need to stop. You promised Keller you’d try sleeping at least five hours a night when there’s no emergency.”

Sheppard’s driving him nuts. Having him this close and not being able to touch. “Would you stop that?” he explodes. “I’ll go to bed when I want to. And why aren’t you in bed, then?”

Sheppard squints at him. “Because I’m not a scientist?”

“No, but—” Rodney clamps his mouth shut. He rubs his eyes. After a minute, he notices that the empty lab’s become very quiet, and he glances up. Sheppard’s staring at him with the oddest expression on his face. 

“What?” he says defensively. 

Which is when Sheppard’s whole body sort of exhales and then inhales and gets all tense, and he says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” and then his hands are clutching Rodney’s arms and he’s leaning forward and lips, those are lips. On Rodney’s. And they’re a little chapped and firm and soft all together, and they’re putting the most wonderful pressure on Rodney’s mouth, and really, the only thing to do is to lean forward and press back. Maybe part his own a bit. Hang onto his laptop with a death grip with one hand and slide the other around the back of John’s neck. 

“You’re making me crazy,” Sheppard mutters against his lips. 

“Me?” Rodney tries to sputter, but it’s pretty hard to work up the right sort of indignation when Sheppard’s kissing him again, and now, oh, god, now his whole body is getting into the kissing thing, and it’s warm and solid as it matches the length of Rodney’s body. Sheppard’s thigh is shoved between his legs and it’s the perfect place to just rub, and a shiver rips through him. The edge of the table bites his ass as he backs into it, and Rodney doesn’t care because he’s worming his hands under Sheppard’s layers of clothing and that’s skin under his fingers.

“Rodney,” John says as he kisses the line of his jaw. “Rodney, I’m not—”

“Later,” Rodney says. He’s trying to unbutton John’s shirt with one hand. “It can wait.”

“We can’t,” begins John, and Rodney says, “Here? Right. My room.”

John pulls back a little. “No, I—Rodney, look. I have no idea where how you got it in your head, but Radek—” 

And that gets Rodney’s attention and sets off alarms in his head. Big, blaring alarms.

John rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sleeping with Radek. Never was. Never wanted to. Because I’m not—”

“Oh my god,” Rodney interrupts, aghast. “Oh my god. You’re not gay. Is that what you’re trying to tell me? You’re not gay? That’s why you’re not having sex with Radek.” He shoves Sheppard’s chest so that he can move away from him. He knows what John’s going to say because things this good just don’t happen to Rodney. He wants them to, desperately, but they simply don’t. Not with people like Sheppard, not with something he wants so badly. 

“He was actually telling the truth, then. You’d better not have been leading him on.” He glares. “Were you leading him on? That whole thing with the jumpers? Of all the nerve.”

Sheppard’s blinking at him, but that innocent, slightly confused expression doesn’t fool Rodney. Far too many times, he’s seen it turned on the natives of P— fill in the blank planet. The whole, “Please don’t kill us, we’re harmless space explorers routine,” and it never works because honestly, no one’s that dumb, and usually that’s when Ronon starts shooting, Sheppard starts yelling at him to stop, and Rodney starts yelling at Sheppard to “Use your damn gun already. They want to kill me! Me!”

So no, Rodney’s having none of it. 

“Can I just say that you’ve got it all—” 

“No,” Rodney snaps. “You can’t.” Because the disheveled (by Rodney’s hands, Jesus, and that’s a month’s worth of fantasy right there) look is too damn distracting for Rodney to stay here, and disappointment is curling low in his belly. “I can’t believe you sometimes. And I can’t talk to you right now. I’m under strict doctor’s orders to get at least five hours of sleep a night, and you’re thwarting me.” 

“McKay!” Sheppard grabs his arm and won’t let him leave. Rodney can feel the heat of his hand seeping into his skin through his shirt, and it just isn’t fair. “Just listen to me for one minute and—”

And that’s when life gets a whole lot more unfair. As if it’s not bad enough that after all this, Sheppard turns out to be straight after all (which almost isn’t a surprise since that might as well be the story of Rodney’s life) – but no, as if that’s not enough, Sheppard’s radio goes off and he looks like he wants to plant his face in his palms, but he says, “Sheppard here,” and then, “On my way.” Which, of course, is when Rodney gets the same call from the night control room tech, only he says, “Wraith hive on the long range scanners?” and, “Crap,” and, “Fine, I’m coming.”

The story of Rodney’s life. It’s not just that it’s the Pegasus galaxy where all sorts of insane stuff happens regularly. No, this really is the story of Rodney’s life. The universe doesn’t just hate him, it’s out to get him. 

Sheppard turns to him. “Er. You should probably, you know, tidy up before Carter sees us.”

+++

He manages to avoid Sheppard for an entire week. This is mostly because of the Wraith, not because Rodney’s particularly skilled at ducking. Sheppard’s the persistent sort.

Sometime during two tense days, they determine that the Hive isn’t actually headed for their planet, just passing through. They go on full alert anyway, in case. Then he collapses into bed for about twelve hours, eats a breakfast-lunch-dinner, and holes up in the labs with Radek to analyze the latest incident and see if they can figure out where the Wraith are headed. 

On Tuesday, three days after the Wraith scare, Sheppard creeps up on him when he’s walking from the mess to the labs with Radek and tries to maneuver him into an unused hallway. 

“Hah. Your stealth-fu won’t work with me.” He lifts his chin. “Radek and I don’t wish to speak to you,” he says in a show of solidarity with his Sheppard-scorned friend. They should form a club. All Pegasus citizens welcome. It’d be enormous. (And yes, Rodney knows that it’s an apparent contradiction to claim that someone both won’t have anything to do with the hoards that throw themselves at him and is a floozy, but what can he say? It’s Sheppard. He manages both.)

He catches Radek tossing the Colonel a glance over his shoulder. John is standing in the middle of the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets. 

Rodney stiffens his spine and forces himself to walk away. “Don’t pine, Zelenka,” he orders. “It’s unattractive.” 

Two days later, Sheppard tells Ronon and Teyla to go home through the gate first and that he and Rodney will follow. “Rodney,” he says. He places his hand on Rodney’s forearm. 

Rodney looks down at it. It’s tanned and there’s a sprinkling of hair over it, and when he flexes it, Rodney can see the play of fine bones under the surface. It looks strong and, just, capable, and he’d kind of like to leave it right where it is. He’s not an idiot, though. Straight guys – straight military guys, even ones who might dress a bit unorthodox – are just trouble. 

He shrugs Sheppard’s hand off. “Gate’s waiting, Colonel.”

“Come on, Rodney. You’ve been impossible to find all week. We never finished our conversation.”

“We did. You made yourself pretty clear. And forgive me if there are some things I just don’t want to put myself through again. I understand perfectly.”

“Yeah.” Sheppard scrunches up his face. “See, that’s the thing. I don’t think you do.”

Rodney turns to the gate, and just as he’s stepping through, Sheppard shouts, “Fine. Have it your way,” and then Rodney’s on the other side where his teammates are waiting.

+++

Sheppard leaves him alone after that. Oh, Rodney sees him in all the normal places, but he doesn’t try to pester him about anything. He doesn’t miss it. At all. (And if once or twice he catches Sheppard eying him speculatively, he’s just going to ignore that until he can figure out what the Colonel means by it.)

It’s only on Sunday night as he’s about to fall asleep, when he’s in that pleasantly hazy-clear state of neither wakefulness or slumber that he has one of those “aha!” moments. He sits straight up in bed, climbs out, puts his pants on, grabs a shirt, and is out the door in less than two minutes.

John makes him wait outside for what seems like forever before he opens the door. He’s standing there blinking sleepily and his hair is dancing the merengue on top of his head and he’s wearing blue-striped PJ bottoms, and it’s possible that something in Rodney squeezes just a little when he sees this.

“What?” Sheppard mumbles.

Rodney pushes his way in and waits for the door to shut before he bursts out: “You kissed me!”

John shuffles his feet on his way back to bed. “You’re just realizing this now?”

“No, you’re not getting it. You” (he points) “kissed me” (he points to himself). “I didn’t kiss you, you kissed me. And then you had the audacity to lie to me and tell me you weren’t gay. But you started it, so either you’re lying to me or you’re lying to yourself, and really, Sheppard, at your age you should be past that. It’s unhealthy to live in a state of denial.”

“Gee, thanks, McKay.”

“Well, you don’t need to be so grumpy about it.” This wasn’t the way Rodney envisioned this encounter going. 

John sighs and sits down on his bed. “If you would actually stop and think about it instead of flying off the handle you’d realize that I never said I wasn’t gay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I clearly remember you—” Rodney stops.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Then, “Just to be straight. I mean. You’re gay.

“Something like that. Don’t think about it too much. Can’t.”

“Right, but you have sex with men sometimes.”

“Yup.”

They stare at each other for a minute. 

“So,” Rodney says. “This is awkward.”

“Yeah.” John bites his lower lip and it glistens when he’s done. Glistens. Rodney swallows. 

“Okay, then,” John tells him. “Glad we have that cleared up. I’m going to bed now. Door’s over there.”

Rodney blinks. John doesn’t seem too pissed at him, just calm, but that watching look is back in his eyes, and, “You’re serious? So that’s … it?” and there’s a long pause in which Rodney can’t seem to breathe at all and he doesn’t know why because such a thing has never happened to him before, and then finally John says, “Nah. I just wanted to see you squirm a bit cuz you’ve been kind of an ass this week.” His lips curve up. 

“Oh,” says Rodney again, not sure what to do with that. Ass, yes, he might have been called that once or several hundred times before, but maybe he can stay?

John makes an impatient noise. “Well come ‘ere, then,” and he jerks his head, and really, that’s all the encouragement Rodney needs.

+++

Sex with John turns out to be good. Good in this case meaning fantastic. Not that they don’t have some first time issues. (“Ouch, ouch, elbow in my ribs,” and, “Jeez, Rodney, I warned you I was really ticklish there.”)

But mostly it goes from good to better. Rodney’s on the bed, half on, half off Sheppard, and Sheppard cups his hands around his face and pulls him down until their noses touch and says, “God, you’re heavy, McKay,” and before Rodney can do anything, a grin’s crossing John’s face and he says, “I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Feels good.” He rolls his hips up into Rodney’s, where their cocks meet. His hands grip Rodney’s ass and dig in, and Rodney’s fine with that because he’s learning the taste of John’s skin, the hollow of his throat, the twisting patterns of his hair around his nipples, and reality is so much better than imagination.

“Hey.” John looks up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, pupils wide. “You want a blow job?”

Which kind of makes Rodney’s cock almost uncomfortably hard. He can feel the heat that’s been gathering low in his belly rising to the surface, flushing his skin red. “Is that a trick question?” 

He feels John’s muscles coil under him just before John half pushes, half flips him over on the bed and straddles him. John tugs on his shirt, up and over, and, “Help me here, McKay,” and Rodney lifts his torso and lets John yank his shirt off. Same for his pants, and just when Rodney thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust from the sheer sex of John undressing him while he kneels over his body, John starts doing the same for himself, and god, all the stars in this galaxy have nothing on the hotness of John Sheppard stripping right where Rodney can touch him. 

His cock is leaking on his belly, and John runs his finger over the head and sucks it into his mouth, and hello, porn star much? Which doesn’t mean that when Rodney swallows, it’s not totally an audible gulp. 

“Haven’t done this in a while,” John warns as he goes down on him and envelops Rodney’s cock in beautiful heat.

“I think I can deal,” Rodney says manfully. It’s a battle not to just shove up into his mouth, greedy, desperate, seeking more.

And after, when his muscles go lax and he reaches for John’s cock and finds it already softening, the sheets and John’s belly sticky with come, John looks away. His ears are red. 

“You don’t need me to—”

“No. I. Already. Before you.”

Rodney’s eyes begin to drift shut. “I see that.” He snorts. “So, actually, not porn star so much,” and John stiffens next to him and begins to get up. Rodney’s eyes fly open. “Wait, I didn’t mean – it’s not bad. Of course, I’d be totally embarrassed, but, wait, no, that’s not what I mean either. You shouldn’t be.”

John looks at some place below Rodney’s chin. “You say the sweetest things, McKay. It’s just – I – you were.” He puts his hand on Rodney’s chest.

“Really?” 

“Don’t let it go to your head or anything.”

“Never. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

+++

When Rodney wakes up, he’s alone and the sky is hazy with false dawn. Sheppard’s sparkly curtains try valiantly to shimmer. He rolls over and mashes his face into Sheppard’s pillow, which smells like him and that’s pretty nice but actually, coffee would smell so much better right about now. His forehead squishes into a piece of paper.

“Practicing my stealth-fu,” the note reads. “JS.” Rodney stares at it. Colonel Sheppard did not just pass him a note.

Oh, but he did, and Rodney’s never ever going to let him forget it. As if Sheppard was the one who needed to sneak out of his own room. He can only assume it made sense to John in some weird, Sheppardian way to do that rather than wake Rodney an hour ago. 

Now this next thing Rodney totally blames on the whole “coffee is life; brain not online until midway through cup no. 4” thing. Or maybe it’s that Sheppard managed to suck his brains out through his dick last night. But somehow it’s mid-morning before Rodney realizes one very important thing. 

Sheppard was wearing boxers. Boxers. Normal, standard men’s boxers. 

There was no sign of anything different. No traces of make-up, no color in his cheeks or on his lips other than the flush of arousal that Rodney put there. (The thought of which makes Rodney duck his head behind his laptop to hide his smile. Radek eyeballs him.) No shaved or waxed chest; no bare legs (and Rodney’s hair follicles sigh with sympathetic relief). No skirt tossed over the back of a chair. No corset. Above all, no women’s underwear. No lace, no satin. And no high-cut black cotton stretching over his ass, outlining his cock. 

Rodney wants to be disappointed. He does. That was what started this whole thing (because, no, he didn’t have this, this thing for Sheppard before the panties incident. Really. He didn’t). 

Only… It’s John. Sex with John.

Still, though. 

It all bears further investigation. In the name of science and all that. Rodney can’t stand unsolved mysteries. He has to know the answer to everything. So obviously he needs to have more sex with Sheppard. 

Sometimes it’s tough being such a conscientious scientist.

+++

The next time Rodney sees Sheppard, it’s in the mess as he’s arguing with Radek over the best way to reroute energy from the primary systems in the unused parts of the city.

“Perhaps we should talk to Colonel Carter,” Zelenka, the traitor, suggests. 

Rodney’s got a scathing reply on the tip of his tongue (because if they start asking for her help now, when it’s not an emergency, who knows what kind of ideas the woman might get) when Sheppard walks up and plops his tray on the table. Next to Radek’s. But across from Rodney’s. Rodney eyes John’s blue jello. The mess staff would only give him one. One! And they know it’s his favorite.

“Hey Radek,” Sheppard says, and he smiles a little bashfully at him.

“Huh,” says Radek around a mouthful of food.

“Puh-lease.” Rodney sneaks his hand out across the table toward that tempting blue sugar. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Sheppard grins at him and smacks his hand away. “Mine. But maybe if you’re good, I’ll bring you some later for a snack.” 

Radek rolls his eyes at them. “I am leaving now,” he announces. 

“So,” says Sheppard conversationally after Radek’s gone. “For a genius, you can really be an idiot. I thought you were never going to get it. I was so obvious. I even touched you.”

“Shut up,” Rodney says.

+++

Rodney’s sitting on the side of his bed. John’s next to him, sprawled out and loose, naked, with a quizzical look on his face. 

“What are you doing, McKay?”

The question makes Rodney glance down. His hand, with a will seemingly independent of his mind (because he had no clue he was doing it) is stroking John’s leg. Leg with hair.

“Uhm,” he says, cleverly. See, a few weeks ago, he’d just thought he’d check. Make sure that he wasn’t imagining things that first time and that John hadn’t shaved, because he almost found it hard to believe John hadn’t, so strong was his own fantasy about it. Not that Rodney is particularly interested in bare legs, at least on men. On John. Nope, this had more to do with the whole corset and especially the underwear bit. But then he was petting John’s leg, up and down, each pass closer to John’s cock and to his lanky toes, and those parts did interest him. Do interest him. So maybe he’s kind of developing a thing for stroking John’s legs. It tends to lead to some really satisfying results. 

Anyway, John has these lithe runner’s legs, all sinew and tight muscle like his ass, no padding but definitely there, even though Rodney picks on him for having chicken-stick legs. 

John pokes his side with his big toe. “You’re so weird.”

But in all the time that this thing has been going on between them, he hasn’t found any signs to verify what he saw that evening as he backed out of John’s room after team movie night. He’s made sure that John strips frequently. Every time they’re alone, which is pretty often but not nearly enough for Rodney’s taste. He’s pretty sure it could be more often if John would just cooperate, but he won’t. John may be his best friend, but there are best friends and there’s sex and there’s something else, and Rodney’s not so sure that they have that something else. It’s too hard to tell with John. 

There are things he knows about John that he’s pretty sure no one else does – the way John hates grape jelly; how the first time John was a passenger in a plane, he just fell asleep (and he was ten already); the way John sometimes disappears into his never-used office when he doesn’t want to be disturbed but secretly likes that Rodney will occasionally drag him out after several hours – but there’s just as much stuff that he doesn’t know. That John doesn’t share. And Rodney’s not sure if he should be comforted or hurt that it doesn’t seem to be personal. That it’s not that he’s got a problem with Rodney, but that it’s just the way John is, always holding a few pieces back. 

It shouldn’t matter more now than it did when they weren’t sleeping together. It does. 

This though, this is a piece maybe he can figure out. So in addition to careful examination of John’s body, he also surveys John’s room. Visual only (a scrap of material on the floor, thrown behind the bed, something in the bathroom) because he wouldn’t dream of invading John’s privacy by rooting around in his drawers and closet (except that maybe he did, just the once, and found nothing except a pair of Napoleon Dynamite boxers buried at the bottom of a drawer, so he said to himself, “That was very, very wrong, McKay, and you won’t do it again because that would be even more wrong. And also pointless.”). 

After a month or so, the evidence begins to lead to a startling conclusion. Is it possible, however unlikely, that Rodney was wrong? That he didn’t see what he thought he saw? 

“Rodney, are you well?” They’re in a briefing with Carter, and Teyla interrupts herself to ask.

It’s a good time to eat a powerbar. He feels slightly dizzy. It must be his sugar levels dropping. Because wrong? No little black panties?

“You do look pretty pale, McKay,” Carter agrees. “Washed out.”

“You gonna faint?” Ronon’s heard the story about how Rodney (didn’t) faint after using the personal shield to lure the energy creature through the gate. 

“No,” he snaps. Wrong? He wouldn’t have even cared about the underwear if it had never come up. Because it’s – oh, god, it’s not about the underwear, is it. It’s about John, and he was wrong, wrong, wrong in so many ways and now he’s screwed. It’s one thing to have a fetish for John wearing ladies’ little black underpants, and completely another to have a thing for John, period. What if John doesn’t, you know, too? Rodney doesn’t know. That’s the thing. He was wrong, and now he just doesn’t know. 

John nudges his leg with his knee under the table. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “Come on. I think you should go lie down. You’re really not looking good.” His hand grips Rodney’s arm and pulls him up, and then touches the small of his back, briefly, a small secret touch, and Rodney whimpers. 

So. Screwed.

+++

Jeannie’s been pestering him to come visit her. “I want you to stay with us for a few days,” she writes. “Just because you want to, Mer.” (Which really means, “because I’m going to make you want to,” and if “want” means “in order to prevent his own death by slow and painful ways known only to younger sisters” then yes, Rodney wants to.) 

“Madison’s taking ballet lessons,” he tells John, aghast. “Ballet. With pink tutus and – and whatever other unnatural and mind-decaying things are involved.”

John looks up from his comic book. 

“We have to save her.” He uses his hands to convey his urgency and hopes that John will let his “we” assumption slide. 

“If it can wait another month,” John says, “I’m due to go back to Earth for a few days for a review. And some function or other that Carter tricked me into agreeing to by scheduling my review for the day before the function.” He looks wry. 

Rodney shakes his head, but he’s grinning. John wants to come back with him, although it could just be because of Madison. He’s got some sort of bond with her. Of course, Madison is a McKay, regardless of her last name, and therefore more clever than most kids her age and John, well, John’s a bit of a five-year-old himself sometimes. 

“Carter’s a sneaky woman. You have to watch that one, Colonel,” and then, “Wait. Is this for the Air Force? As in, it involves dress blues?”

Sheppard rubs the back of his neck and looks away. “Yeah.”

Huh. There’s something there, something – discomfort? shyness? tension, at least – that Rodney catches but can’t decipher without more information. “Dress blues are really hot. All those starchy sharp lines. I always wanted to rumple an officer in blues.”

“That’s such a cliché.” But despite the teasing words, John’s eyes flicker up and away, again. 

It intrigues Rodney. 

+++

Pallila sets down the platter on the table right in front of Rodney. Her blouse is cut low. “Please, Dr. McKay,” she says, “Eat. You have done so much for us in the last two days. If there is any way we can repay you, you must tell us.” 

The food’s pretty good. Roast meat, something like yams, something else with sweet peppers. It’s an odd combination that works, and there’s plenty of it. And it’s all in Rodney’s honor. Before they bring out the desserts, the head councilman makes a toast to Rodney and company, thanking him for their work. 

“So they should,” he mutters. John kicks him under the table to be quiet. 

He’s spent the last two days fixing Ancient tech that’s probably been decaying for thousands of years. He can’t make it perfect, but he did a damn good job on it and he’s tired and crabby now and just wants to go home.

Pallila comes back with a special tray of desserts just for him. She places it next to him with a smile. “Excuse me,” she says to Ronon, who’s sitting next to Rodney. She slides onto the bench beside him, and there’s a flash of leg as she does. 

Rodney looks at the tray hastily. Pallila’s been accompanying him around the city for the past two days showing him problem spots and sharing what little her people know with him. She’s half a scientist and half a historian. Pseudo-scientist, really. The sort of woman who falls all over men like Sheppard. Because Sheppard always looks good with this sort of woman. Not too tall, but blonde with wide blue eyes and a lush, curved figure – chest, hips, ass, oh yeah. And at this moment, she’s leaning into Rodney, her breasts resting comfortably on his arm, a warm weight, and her long blonde hair teases the side of his neck. 

He sighs, a little one. In a minute, she’s going to look up and see John across the table and that will be that. He inhales the slight scent of her perfume. Her breath is sweet on his face, and when she laughs, a low, clear sound, the peaks of her nipples brush his arm, even through the layers of fabric separating them.

“There must be a chill in here,” she murmurs as she looks at him from under her eyelashes. 

Rodney swallows. “Yes?” 

“Dr. McKay,” she says. “I must confess I have not been perfectly honest. I told you I had shown you all the Gifts left by the Ancestors, but I did not. There is one thing I left out.” 

Nonplussed, he says, “Why?”

She leans even closer. She’s practically in his lap by this point. “I wished to show it to you more privately. It is in my house. The feast will break up shortly. Perhaps you wish to accompany me so that I can—” she pauses – “show you properly?”

This is the place where, if Rodney’s life were a movie, the action would freeze and the narrator turn to address the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a bland voice would say. “Witness that the universe is not, in fact, out to get Rodney McKay. It just wants to fuck with him.”

Rodney can’t even begin to count on his fingers the number of times a hot, stacked blonde has tried to seduce him into some dirty, sweaty sex, and the reason he can’t count them is because it’s never happened. 

And now, when it’s finally happened, he’s sitting across the table from his, his what. Fuck buddy? Lover? He doesn’t know what this thing with John is, what John thinks it is, wants it to be. He glances up. John’s not paying any attention to him and Pallila. His head is turned as he talks to the man next to him, all laconic words and smile and spiky hair, casual, casual, I don’t care what you do, McKay, except. 

Except his shoulders are slouched the wrong way, forward instead of back, and he’s not looking at him. Not as in simply not glancing his way, but as in studiously not looking anywhere near him. 

Rodney meets Pallila’s eyes and smiles half a grimace, half a genuine smile at her. He’s talked to (at) her a lot the past few days, and she’s no genius but is pretty nice and helpful. He’s actually somewhat fond of her in a “you’re only mostly, but not completely, an idiot” kind of way. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Can’t.” He slides over further on the bench, away, and curses the universe.

The next time he looks up, feeling eyes on him, John’s watching him. Rodney offers him a small “what can you do” smile, and John grins. Not his snide little smirk, but the real thing, rare and open and absurdly precious to Rodney.

Eat your heart out, Universe.

+++

Carter signs off on Rodney’s request to go back to Earth for a week. “I hate letting the heads of military and science go back at the same time.”

“We’re always out of the city together,” Rodney points out. “Every time we go off-world.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s just Earth. Earth is different.”

“Hah!” Rodney points. “You’d miss me.”

John raises his eyebrows. “You won’t get rid of us that easily, Colonel. Neither one of us has any intention of staying there. Unless—”

It’s a secret fear John has, Rodney’s pretty sure. Only it’s not a secret at all. It’s out there for anyone to see because this is one thing John can’t – doesn’t even try – to hide. 

Carter smiles at him. “Last I heard, you were in the IOA’s good graces. Although these things change all the time. Your job is safe for now, and I expect to see you back in one week. At least try not to get into any trouble this time, okay?”

Being back on Earth is even stranger than the last time. Not because anything’s wrong (and maybe that’s the strangest thing), but because with every month that passes, Earth becomes more like one of the planets they gate to, somewhere to go, somewhere to leave. It begins to remind Rodney of an amusement park, almost not real. 

He yawns all the way through the reception John drags him to in Carter’s stead. Admittedly, he might not have put up that much of a fight because he’s not about to pass up seeing John in his dress uniform. 

Why, yes, he is that shallow. 

It’s kind of like a date, only not, since this is the United States Air Force. After careful study, he decides that while he prefers John in his normal black or better yet, nothing at all, the uniform’s got merit. Like the way it seems to make John stand straighter, shoulders proud. None of that lazy, hidden power and loose coil, but bold confidence right out there to see. 

“Stop staring,” John hisses at him out of the corner of his mouth as he smiles at someone neither of them knows. “Ah, she couldn’t make it,” he says in response to a question about Carter, for the tenth time. “She sends her regrets.” 

Rodney tries not to snort. 

“Let me introduce you to Dr. McKay,” John offers instead. Once John told him that his mother, who was big into manners, taught him that one always introduces the social inferior to the social superior. There are a lot of things John can’t say to anyone in the Air Force, things that Rodney thinks he might not say even if he were at liberty to, but John introduces every single person that night, even General Snyder, to Rodney, not the other way around. Maybe John’s not doing it deliberately, but maybe he is.

“You’re impossible, McKay,” says John later as they get to their hotel. It was a bit of a drive from the convention center where the function was held, but it’s away from prying eyes. John’s been quiet all the way back. 

“Hey, I was good.” Rodney pushes John to the wall as soon as they’re in John’s room. They booked two rooms, in case, but Rodney has no intention of even seeing the inside of his. “Oh, god, I’ve been waiting to do this all evening.” 

There’s nothing tentative in his kiss. He nips John’s lower lip just to see it bow, to feel it give way and let him in. It takes longer than usual. John’s already got a shadow on his face, even though he shaved before the function, and it scratches his face, familiar, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t give heed to anything other than the curve of John’s mouth against his, the long planes of his body molding to his own broader frame, the rasp of John’s breath.

John’s jacket falls to the carpet, along with Rodney’s tie. The buttons on John’s shirt give way to Rodney’s busy fingers because he can’t ever seem to get enough of John’s skin, supple and bright with so much life. He loves to bury his face in the hidden areas of his body, the hollow of his shoulder, the tender place under his arm. “Jesus,” he says. “How many layers are you wearing?” There’s another shirt under the button-down and he goes to push it up, and John stiffens.

“What?” Rodney’s starting to get nervous now. John’s definitely not as into this as he should be. He was fine all evening until they got back to the hotel. 

“I – nothing.” He rubs the back of his neck, the way he does when he’s lying or jittery or both, and pulls the undershirt over his head and reaches out for Rodney. His chest is bare except for the silver tags hanging in the center. 

“No, leave them on,” Rodney tells him when he goes to take them off. They shouldn’t be as sexy as they are, but Rodney thinks that about John generally. Anyone who owns Napoleon Dynamite boxers has no right to be half as hot as Sheppard. 

“Rodney.” John makes his name into a groan and a question, and then his mouth is back on Rodney’s, feverish, almost frightened, and his hands are everywhere, and Rodney’s going to come before they even get started if he keeps this up. His blood is pounding through his body, rushing to his cock and this is really embarrassing, but he’s pretty sure his knees are going to buckle because sometimes he wants John so badly that he doesn’t even know what to do with it. So he steers John over to the bed and pushes him back, and then works his way down his body to the buckle of his pants. He’s lost his own clothes along the way.

When he pushes apart John’s legs and unzips his pants and opens the resulting V wide, he goes to yank down John’s boxers so that he can bury his face in the crook of his leg where thigh meets cock and lick his way up. 

Only the fat band of elastic isn’t there. 

It’s a thin one, and then it’s just black material, black cotton low and slinky on his hips, and his cock is pushing up against the flimsy fabric and when Rodney hooks his fingertip under the edge and pulls just a little, the tip of John’s cock appears stiff and heavy above the edge. Of the women’s underwear. Little. Black. Panties.

Rodney blinks. Blinks again, and registers how still John is under him. He opens his mouth and tries to say something and nothing comes out. So he shakes his head and tries again, going for a “Jesus!” or, “Holy shit,” or something, but instead what comes out is, “I knew it! I wasn’t wrong? Oh my god, I wasn’t wrong. Not that I’m surprised, because, yes, genius, and do you know what the chances of me being wrong are? Let’s just say slim. I actually did a calculation on this once and discovered that if you take the ratio of –”

“You … knew?” John interrupts, sounding stunned. And so brittle that if Rodney so much as looks at him the wrong way, he’ll break. His hands are fists in the sheets and he’s looking somewhere at the wall across the room. 

In the face of that, Rodney has to be brutally honest. With himself and John. “Well,” he says. “There was a period – brief! – where I almost thought I was wrong.” It pains him to admit that. “But I knew I wasn’t,” he hastens to add. 

“And you?”

“I what?”

“You, you’re okay with this?” John’s looking at him now, but his eyes are shuttered. Rodney’s not used to seeing that look turned against him, not anymore. He doesn’t want to see it, and this is one time he really can’t get it wrong. 

“God, John.” He cups his hand around John’s cheek. “You have no idea how you look, how incredible. You’re lying there, dog tags around your neck, wearing those little black panties, and just, just.” He stutters to a finish. 

“Oh,” says John. He doesn’t grin or smile or even move, but just stares up at Rodney, wide-eyed, young somehow, vulnerable, and Rodney would devise a thousand hideous deaths for anyone who would mar that expression, starting with himself. Because when John stares up at him, he’s astounded to realize that John wants him, really wants him, that when he touches John and looks at him and finds him beautiful, this is all John’s been asking for. 

“Idiot,” he says, and flicks him behind the ear, just because he can, because all John had to do was ask. 

“Ouch.” With that, John’s body finally relaxes. He lifts his hips and tugs off his pants, leaving just the underwear.

“Thank god. Can we get on with the sex now?” and John snorts and hits him in the shoulder.

Rodney fucks him slow and sure, after he’s mouthed his way up and down the length of John’s cock, both the covered and uncovered bits. After the cotton is wet and neither of them can stand it any longer and John’s practically writhing under his hands and Rodney’s in no better shape. After he can finally bring himself to take that black cotton off him.

He comes inside him with John clenching around him, as he watches John jack himself off, his lips parted and carrying Rodney’s name. The world threatens to spasm white behind his eyelids if only he were to let them close, and he won’t because all he wants to see is John, and maybe all John sees is him.

+++

“So,” Rodney says conversationally. “Teyla I get because it’s Pegasus and I bet that it’s pretty hard to smuggle back corsets and other, uhm, things,” (Rodney still doesn’t know what they are, but he’s hoping to find out soon) “through the gate or on ship back to the city. But why tell Ronon?” (And by this, what Rodney really means is why tell Ronon before you told me.)

“What are you talking about?” 

“You know.” Rodney jerks his head in a complicated motion that’s meant to convey a whole lot more than it does, judging from John’s expression. “About the women’s clothing thing.”

John crosses his arms and leans back against the wall in Jeannie’s guest room. “That’s one of those questions that would be really good under other circumstances. Such as if I’d told Ronon. Or Teyla. Besides, corset?”

“John,” Rodney says, trying not to sound too aggrieved. “You might as well just tell me. I’m fine with it. Better than fine. You don’t need to worry about my reaction. At least, about the corset. I do have a few things to say about telling Ronon and Teyla first. That wasn’t very nice.”

“Rodney,” John says in the exact same tone that Rodney just used. “Ronon doesn’t know. Teyla doesn’t know. And I’d like it to stay that way. It’s kind of” – he looks away – “private. Er. I’ve never told anyone. Actually. Before you, I mean. I just like to wear it sometimes. Mostly under the blues, but every once in a while, around.”

Rodney’s still on the “never told anyone but you” part of that, and he gets hung there for approximately seventeen seconds before he realizes: “But I saw Teyla hand you a corset! Oh my god, do you think she’s on to you?”

“No, I don’t.” John’s starting to get that look, the one that says, ‘I’d really like to shoot something right about now.’ “Hey, you think Jeannie’s waiting for us? We’d better go or we’ll be late to Madison’s recital.”

As if Rodney’s in a hurry to go watch a bunch of kids stumble around a stage while their parents coo. His plan to save his niece from the perils of dance hasn’t come along very far. Madison probably won’t even be on for an hour, knowing his luck. 

“But then what was that Athosian thing she gave you when she said it would take you to the next step?”

“She was pretty upset with me,” John tells him with a sigh. “After she told us about the baby and I got mad at her. She decided that I could make it up to her by being the gashilt or something like that. It’s kind of like a godfather. Only with babysitting. It’s supposed to be a great honor, but I don’t think she really meant it as one.”

“Diaper duty.” Rodney shudders. 

“Yeah. That thing was some sort of baby carrier. Probably. I haven’t managed to figure it out yet.”

“Hum.” Rodney pauses, and John makes for the door. “So when you wear your dress uniform?”

John rolls his eyes. “Rodney,” he says in an exasperated tone, “we really do have to go,” just as Jeannie yells up the stairs, “Meredith! John! We need to go, and I swear, if you make us late, I’ll let Madison have her wicked way with you, Mer. She likes an audience when she practices her dance steps.”

“Coming,” Rodney yells back, and he follows John out of the guest bedroom. “So I take it that it’s a rebellion thing? Wearing something you shouldn’t to thumb your nose at the Air Force. That’s probably how it started, right? And then you were just used to it so you kept on doing it, and then started doing it other times.”

John ignores him.

“Okay, so maybe that’s not it. It was the opposite, wasn’t it. You somehow put them on once under the uniform, maybe a girlfriend’s on a dare from her, and then you realized that they were something special. Like the dress blues. Because the uniform is something special – you don’t wear it everyday, just like the panties.”

This time John snorts. They’re halfway down the stairs now, and the front door’s open with the key in it. Rodney can hear the car running.

“Right, not that either. Oh, I know! Of course, this makes so much sense. You didn’t like cock. Only you did. Because you were attracted to it, but you were in this archaic, repressed institution, and so you tried to suppress your own desires by convincing yourself that you liked women. But you couldn’t actually bring yourself to have sex with one, so you wore the underwear as a way to break yourself in. You could see your dick underneath it, but told yourself you were just getting off on the underwear.” 

Rodney shakes his head and locks the door. “I’m sorry, Sheppard, but that’s really sad.”

“Rodney,” John says as Rodney begins to walk toward the car with Jeannie in it. He grips Rodney’s shoulders and makes him face him. His voice sounds half-choked, and Rodney can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or not to hit him. “Listen. Just stop. Whatever you’re thinking, stop. You’re wrong. Trust me, you’re wrong. I didn’t wear them on a dare from a girlfriend. Or my wife. Ex-wife.” 

Rodney tries to say something (John never talks about his ex), but John shushes him. 

“My mother didn’t wish she’d had a girl and dress me up like one when I was young.” 

Which, wow. That one hadn’t even occurred to Rodney. 

“I didn’t get stuck playing the girl with my brother when we were little. I just like to wear them sometimes.”

“Your what?” Rodney yells. “Brother? Brother? And I’m only hearing about this now? Jesus Christ, John,” and boy, does he have more to say about this one, but Jeannie’s honking at them, and, “You’re a piece of work, Sheppard,” is all he can say before they climb into the car.

John just raises his eyebrows at him. It’s a strangely fond look.

+++

He amuses himself during the brain-grinding, eye-wrenching pain of Madison’s dance recital by imagining John naked but for his tags and those little black underpants, caught by the city’s sparkling light rather than the yellow haze of the hotel’s electricity. 

Jeannie pokes him in the leg (hard) when he starts to snore. On the other side, John pokes him in the leg (but it’s more a caress, almost) when he snorts at the little girls in their puffy pink tutus and cocks his head and looks at John suggestively. 

“Do not,” John whispers, “get any more ideas. You come up with some really crazy shit.”

“The mark of a fine mind,” Rodney hisses back proudly. 

Rodney’s a genius, after all. Sure, he got one or two (very) small things wrong, or not so much wrong as more not precisely right. Details, sheesh. But this is about the big picture, after all – Rodney’s all for not losing sight of the big picture. 

And the big picture is that it’s not nearly as much about John as he thought and again not nearly as much about himself as he thought, but about them. About John knowing him, about Rodney getting to know him in that place where fantasy becomes reality and reality blends into fantasy. Where, one day, he’ll be able to touch all the pieces of John, and where he has to be at least half as good and brave and loyal as the man he sees reflected in John’s eyes. Because, god, it occurs to him while the insipid music plays and the little girls twirl – maybe John has fantasies about him, too. And Rodney wants, more than anything, perhaps even more than the Nobel prize, to make John’s fantasies about him come true. 

Meanwhile he’s got his own fantasy, you know, about John and his bed in Atlantis, about home and the double moonlight playing through John’s silly shimmering curtains while John stares up at him with parted mouth and flushed cheeks and cock pressing desperately against thin, black cotton. 

Maybe some of his other fantasies haven’t been quite accurate. The solid length of John’s leg against his during his niece’s damn ballet recital means that Rodney’s pretty sure this time he's right.


End file.
